


Shangri LA

by aLittleMoody (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Fighting, Guitar, Laundry, M/M, Mild Smut, Pop star, Recording, Recording Studio, Rock Stars, Smut, Studio Session, Weed, but not like violent, harry is a soft, idk how do you even tag things so people find it, larry - Freeform, larry stylinson - Freeform, louis is a tiny bit a dick, they kind of share that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22627960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/aLittleMoody
Summary: Louis Tomlinson is a successful pop star struggling to find a mature direction for his upcoming record under the tutelage of superstar producer Rick Rubin. When Rick brings in the young session guitarist, Harry Styles, tensions run high.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Kudos: 13





	Shangri LA

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a proof-of-concept for writing smut. It's very mild. And short. And I didn't edit at all. And I maybe got a little carried away in the music history research. I don't plan on taking this story further but let me know what you think. Should I write more?

“I’ve gotta be honest with ya, Rick. I dunno what the fuck I’m meant to sound like these days,” Louis said, gazing up into the California blue sky and taking a drag. 

“If you were gonna listen to a record, right now, what would that sound like? Any record in the world. What would it be?” the producer replied.

“I’ve no idea, man. Not the slightest.” Louis sighed, beleaguered. 

“Alright well, what have you been listening to? Last thing you heard: go!” Rick fired back.

Louis shifted in his deck chair, groping at the phone somewhere in his deep jogger pocket. Opened music. Scrolling, scrolling. There it was. “Ahh, looks like Stutter, Elastica. Mmhm. Solid tune.” Louis agreed with himself.

Rick took pause, staring down at his bare toes curling into the green lawn of Shangri La Studios. Let the kid have a moment to let that sink in he thought. A breath later, he asked Louis “Well, what makes that one good?”

Louis took another drag. He crossed his legs and perched his hand on his knee. He rolled his head back and closed his eyes, just feeling the sun on his face. “It has to be the guitars on that, yeah? Classic. Classic. Sounds like home. Britpop. Easy vocals, massive guitar…” he trailed off. 

“So why not make a record like that? What would be wrong about that?”

“Just not what I do.” Louis leaned forward, bracing his forearm on his knee and tapping ash into the grass. “Not what I do, you know that.” A mischievous glint sparkled in Louis eye and he put on a voice to remind Rick, “I’m a big pop star.” Then, weightily, he added, “Guitar music just doesn’t sell. It’s all R&B and EDM these days. And hell, I wouldn’t even know how to write for a guitar like that, never done that at all.”

Rick chuckled “I know some guys we can get in here, easy. See who’s around, have someone in for tomorrow. How’s that sound?” Rick prayed Louis would go along. The kid was in a rut and he needed to find something that could get him out.

“Give it a go... See how it goes... Can’t hurt, can it? May as well.” Louis mused.

“Great!” Rick said. “I’m gonna grab something to eat. Want anything?”

“Nah. I’m good out here for now, thanks.”

At the studio dining table, Rick paged through his contacts. Who would work well on this record, who could finally break the ice for Louis? Louis already had 5 incredibly popular records. But he was stuck, lost his voice in the saccharine radio pop that propelled him to the top of the charts again and again. Rick wasn’t looking to make a flop, but Louis needed something, anything different. Who did he know that would be the antithesis to Louis’ teen heartthrob? 

A name down in the S’s caught his eye. He made the call.

“Hello Rick! How are you, Brother?” Cheerfully responded a man with a deep voice and slight Mancunian accent.

“Harry, how’d you like to come into the studio tomorrow? I’ve got an artist here, we’re looking for some great, old-school guitars.”

“You know I’m there. Who is it?” 

“It’ll be Louis Tomlinson.” 

“You’re kiddin’ me.” Harry deadpanned. Louis Tomlinson?

“Nope, it’s Louis Tomlinson. We’re working on his next record… early stages, working out the sound. I think you have a lot to offer here.”

“I trust you, Rick… I’ll be there.” Harry knew Rick was a legend for good reason. If Harry was wanted, Harry would go. Maybe there would actually be something to this teenybopper who probably couldn’t tell a guitar from a bass. More likely, it would make a good story.

The next morning, Harry rolled up to Shangri La. He was apprehensive, of course. He’d never intentionally listened to a Louis Tomlinson song until the night before. And he couldn’t say he ever would again. But pulling up to the studio, he was greeted by the sight of Bob Dylan’s old tour bus. Whoever was waiting inside, that bus was a monolithic reminder that this place was home to a little bit of history and a lot of great music. 

Harry found Louis sat at the kitchen table, clutching a Starbucks coffee. Really, a multi-millionaire and you can’t be bothered to get decent coffee? Harry mused. Rick was sat across from him, leaning in and speaking in low tones that Harry couldn’t quite make out. When he caught sight of Harry, he broke into a broad smile.

“Harry Styles! Good morning!” Rick gestured with an open palm to the man across the table. “This is Louis. Louis, this is Harry Styles. Brilliant guitar player. I’ve worked with him a few times now, he never disappoints.”

Harry grinned “Ah, thank you!” and made his way across the room to pluck a banana from the bunch on the counter. 

Louis watched him. About 6’, he reckoned. Wicked tattoos. Chaotic curls tumbled down over the other man’s notably broad shoulders. Harry dressed like he didn’t give a damn who was looking, but he carried it off. He was rock ‘n’ roll, alright. But man, could he be any more different from Louis?

Apprehension tensed Louis’ brow as he greeted him, “Good to meet ya, lad!” and his terse tone was not lost on Harry.

“Nice to be working with ya, Louis,” Harry responded, then nodded at the older man “Rick, I’ll be setting up if you need anything.”

In the sound room, Harry unpacked his personal guitar and tuned it up. Alone, with the cool steel under his fingertips, he could have been anywhere. He closed his eyes and played, letting the sound wash over him. Improvising, letting the chords lead him. 

When he finally made his way over Louis stopped dead in the hallway. Just listening to Harry’s guitar. It wasn’t quite the britpop of his youth, it wasn’t punk or folk or surf rock. The sound tread a fine line between references, weaving them together into something soulful, entrancing, and exciting. Louis’ breath caught as if the sound of his breath might interrupt the music.

Eyes closed, leaning against the corridor wall, hands clutching a warm mug of honey tea, listening, that’s how Rick found him. He hung back a moment. Louis was completely entranced, swaying unconsciously along with the melodies wafting through the open door of the sound room. That was a real connection. And for the first time, Rick thought that this record might be on its way to something great. 

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Rick said gently. Louis blinked himself back to reality and then followed Rick to the sound room.

Time to get to it.

Louis sauntered into the sound room and took a seat on a high stool across from Harry. Rick started rolling and sat back, observing curiously. 

He fixed his ocean blue eyes on the guitarist. The guitarist’s brow knit together, a bit confused or frustrated, maybe both, but Louis couldn’t tell. 

“Well, what do you want?” he eventually mumbled.

“Aah...” Louis drawled “I haven’t quite got me sound down for this record, that’s the idea today, work out what a live guitar sound might be.” 

“For the record?” Harry followed up. Did Louis know anything at all about songwriting, Harry wondered, or had he been handed his music career on a platter by the Swedish Gods of Pop?

“Mmhm,” Louis tossed absentmindedly, “So let’s see what you’ve got.”

Harry shot Rick a dirty look as he bowed his head over his guitar. What in the hell was he doing here, in a room with an air-headed pop prince who evidently couldn’t write a song to save his life; who had an album slated for release within the year and hadn’t written a thing? Why was Rick fucking with him like this?

Baffled, he began, cribbing pieces of the half-remembered Beatles songs he learned to play guitar on. Fuck knows what he was meant to be doing. He wondered with a cynical bite if he could just outright play Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds. Would Louis even recognize the tune?

Before he could get cheeky, Louis cleared his throat and hopped down from his perch upon the stool. He caught Rick’s eye before addressing his new guitarist.

In the booth Rick mulled over the budding situation. Both were pissed. And that glare was the most unmasked emotion he’d seen in Louis since the boy had arrived. This could be explosive. Could derail everything. If Louis had anything written, Rick would be pulling him out. Now. But there was nothing at risk, not really. Not yet. Maybe a good jarring was all Louis needed to tap the glory of those first records he had recorded alone in a Doncaster studio apartment. Rick sure fucking hoped so. 

“Harry,” Louis tutted “you’re not here to play that. What do you sound like, man?” What the hell was going on with this guy? This was the same Harry who Louis heard in the corridor? More importantly why had Rick brought him here if all he was going to do was play stale pop without soul?

A sickness tugged at Harry’s stomach. His sound? Louis wanted his sound? So this was it, then. Rick was selling him out to a teenybopper hack, and he was sure the money would be good. How many platinum records did Louis have, again? But fuck. Six years, playing open mics at cafes, working in cafes, pouring his soul into his own demos, and finally getting a small recording contract, then getting his foot in the door to steady studio gigs... all of that led him here.

Harry was being asked to hand his soul to a man who’d never worked a day in his life. By a man Harry had only dreamt of working with a year prior. He bit his tongue. Hard. He might have tasted blood, but he wasn’t sure. He was seeing red and the darkness of the devil beat against his eardrums. Suffocating him. He shoved the weight of his raspberry Paul Reed Smith off his lap.

The dull, pitiful thud of the instrument on the carpeted floor sent shocks of ice water through his veins. He hung his head in shame behind a curtain of hair. He could feel the tears coming. And he couldn’t look at Louis. And he couldn’t look at Rick.  
He stared down between his feet. He was sat in Shangri Fucking La studio. With Rick Rubin. And Louis Tomlinson. And he had just thrown his own guitar on the floor. His too-nice guitar, in a too-nice room, with too-good people. He reached out and stroked his thumb over the back of the guitar’s neck. He didn’t dare flip it over to see what he had done. Whatever the damage. He deserved it. 

A fat tear caught in Harry’s hair. Pathetic. He sat back, rummaged in his guitar case, and withdrew a pack of pretiles blunts. Brandishing it clearly, he stood and left the studio. An apology caught in his throat as he passed by Rick. The hallway from the sound room to the kitchen was vertiginously narrow and long. Harry kept walking until he was nestled deep at the back of the decommissioned tour bus which sat on the property. 

Lighting a blunt, he mused if Bob Dylan had ever sat here, in his old bus, feeling like this. If that was where a song or two came from. Bitterly choking back a sob he confessed it was an insult to imagine himself the same as Dylan. Smoldering blunt pressed between his fingertips, he tucked his head between his knees and sobbed. 

As the last heaves of his pity cry racked his body, it occurred to him that he did not deserve to sit on the bench of The Bob Dylan’s old tour bus. So he slumped onto the floor. He situated himself spread eagle, staring at the riveted steel roof. He took stock. Face: wet. Knee: wet. Weed: good. Very good.

It was like this that Louis found him: Deep blue stains on the knees of his acid wash jeans, hair tangled into a crown around his head, and curls of heady smoke hanging above him.

Louis stepped over him, going for the pack of blunts and lighter left on the bench. He sunk down, sitting on the floor just in front of the bench with one leg outstretched. His foot was resting so near Harry’s head Louis worried he might’ve caught some of his hair, but Harry didn’t make a sound. 

He only inhaled.  
And exhaled.

And so did Louis.

When he sat down, Louis head was racing with what he’d say to Harry. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Rick just told him “Get him back.” But how the hell do you get back someone you never had? Tell him to man up like a professional? Be good or go home? But Louis heard him from the corridor. He knew he wanted that. And then, in the bus, he felt the haze take ahold. And it was slowing and calming the whirlwind of confusion, doubt, and anger in his brain. 

Louis really didn’t mind it at all. 

It was five minutes or an eternity before Harry spoke. “What. D’you. Want?” 

With me, why are you here? The question implied.

Louis defied it. “I have. No. Idea, man.”

“Do you know who you are?” Harry probed so carelessly, but he punched Louis in the gut.

His breathing hitched and and his next word came out raspy: Dunno.

“Well, that is not good,” Harry murmured, flipping up onto one elbow to get a look at him.

Louis’ face screwed up. He stared Harry dead in the eye as the waterworks took over.

Harry slumped back down, indifferent. 

Then, sniffling tore his attention away from the rivets. He lolled his head over to his right. Through heavy-lidded eyes he saw the tears sparkling in Louis’. Something awful tugged at his gut. So Harry pulled himself up onto his knees across from Louis. 

Louis felt the heel of Harry’s blunt hand press against his right ear. Then a palm on his left cheek. A thumb on his lip. He blinked through his tears, feeling a strange and awful tug grabbing him at the throat, stifling speech and thought. Harry’s eyes were so close. So green. So blown wide. So high. 

“You’re very pretty when you cry,” he cooed as he smeared the trail of a tear over Louis’ lower lip.

Louis was suddenly very aware of Harry’s slack, stubbled jaw and the smoke tumbling from his full, red lips as he spoke. Inches from his face. Only inches.  
And Louis inhaled, deeply.

Harry felt Louis’ hand grip the nape of his neck. Sweet, electric wetness itself pressed into his lips. Louis bore his weight down on Harry’s shoulder with his free arm. Pliant, Harry curled his body backward, sliding his thighs between his heels and pressing his back flat against the floor. Surely that was a yoga pose. 

Louis pulled away to snub out his blunt on the upturned gum sole of Harry’s vans. Harry followed suit. 

Louis slithered his knees between Harry’s stretched thighs. Harry whimpered at the straining of his groin. 

Harry’s sounds elicited a toothy, excited grin from Louis. He pressed that grin into Harry’s mouth, bringing teeth and shallow tongue and wetness. Harry swore he tasted warm, sweet summer strawberries.

Louis slid a hand up onto Harry’s chest, bearing weight on his ribs. Harry groaned softly in response and curled his lips into his own shoulder. Louis took advantage of Harry’s newly exposed neck.

The warmth and friction between their jeans was only an afterthought to Louis, who was determined to simply devour Harry. To Harry it was a raging fire. He moved one of his hands over Louis’ ass and up to the small of his back, pressing in, bringing Louis closer. Harry lifted his hips to Louis’ belly what little he could. He tossed his head back as Louis found his way to Harry’s clavicle.

Louis pulled one of his arms under Harry and steadied himself with the other just in the crook of Harry’s neck and shoulder. So deliciously close that Harry nuzzled against it longingly. 

He uttered a broken and guttural “please” into the thick of Louis’ forearm. 

“Please what?” Louis had him. He knew.

Harry softly curled his free arm up around Louis’ shoulder and pressed Louis down.

Louis slid himself up, pressing his cock beside Harry’s bulge. He leant down to murmur into Harry’s exposed ear.

“Mmmn. Too much. Enjoy this.” 

Harry could hardly argue as Louis’ tongue traced the curve of his ear down to the delicate flesh just below. There, Louis planted a slow kiss - deepening, sucking, biting. Satisfied when Harry exhaled a soft, blissed-out “ah” Louis melted into Harry’s side, freeing Harry’s aching thighs. 

Harry pulled his legs under himself and found his way into a comfortable position. He sat upright in front of Louis whose legs tangled with his, crotches almost dangerously close once again. Softly, they exchanged kisses until Harry, stoned and blissed out, fell asleep against the crook of Louis’ neck. 

Louis gently lead the nearly-sleeping Harry to lie up on the bus’ cushioned bench. 

He smeared the wetness of his lips across the back of his own wrist and sat on the bench across from Harry. Then, he picked up Harry’s blunts and lighter and set them neatly beside himself. He combed a gentle, wandering hand through the sleeping Harry’s hair, tucking it behind the man’s ear to see the mark he had left. A deep familiarity settled in Louis heart, but a voice at the back of his mind called him away. So, Louis picked up the discarded butts from the floor and made his way back into the bright California sunlight.

...


End file.
